The Lion's Charge
by Neocolai
Summary: A loyal soldier of Calormen recalls the capture of King Edmund, the failed negotiation for Queen Susan's hand in marriage to the humiliated Prince Rabadash, and the roar of the Lion who rattled his faith in the mighty Tash. Golden Age Oneshot, no slash.


A loyal soldier of Calormen recalls the capture of King Edmund, the failed negotiation for Queen Susan's hand in marriage to the humiliated Prince Rabadash, and the roar of the Lion who rattled his faith in the mighty Tash. Golden Age Oneshot, no slash.

* * *

 **Regardless of the possibility of grimmer happenstances, my stories will never contain slash for the sake of angst or even skirt around the possibility. I like good old-fashioned whump and whump I shall have. I promise that Edmund will be returned (more or less) hale and in one piece by the end of this story.**

 **First jaunt into the realm of Narnia. I neither own the works of C.S. Lewis nor can I acclaim to being a decent author in the fandom. Reviews and constructive criticism will be welcome!**

* * *

When we enter the throne room of Cair Paravel, flanked by centaurs and grim-faced fauns, the Just King has been already missing for twelve days. I glance at the courier under my guard, wondering if we will leave the great hall alive. It is not my choice to guard this arrogant, oily-voiced man who speaks for the Tisroc (may he live forever), but my commission has never carried me further than Archenland, and I dare not argue my lack of experience against my desire to continue living.

I realize I need not concern myself regarding my survival for much longer, for the High King of Narnia is furious. He tears the letter of proposal and casts the pieces at my feet. While Queen Susan pales like a frost-touched lily, waxen and still upon her throne, the king paces like a lion robbed of its cub. He hurls blasphemies upon Calormen; upon its divine ruler (may he live forever); upon its couriers; upon its people; and, to my outrage, upon Tash himself. He rages with his words, rending mingled fear and anger into my heart, until I see the courier's tender, simpering smile and realize that the king is pawing at the air with dull claws. He is backed into a corner and he dare not reprehend us while his brother experiences our… _hospitality_ across the border.

"Does your prince not remember the curse laid upon him when he waged war against Aslan?" the centaur to the right of the king speaks. Oreius, I recall the name being spoken; a respected general, if one could defer to the beasts which roamed this barbaric land.

Zunruli's smile falters, but he gathers himself quickly and speaks with confidence. "There is no curse which the great Tash cannot overcome. Our honorable Prince Rabadash, son of the Tisroc (may he live forever), favored by the people, respected by the rulers of Telmar, graced by Tash himself, has re-extended his benevolent offer to wed the fair Queen of the North, in return for the safe return of the infidel king."

Had King Peter been comparable to a bellowing lion before, he is now no less than a tempest on the high seas, crushing frail ships with his fury and bloodlust, railing upon them with pitiless scorn. I tuck my chin, my bloodless fingers winding around my scimitar, before I realize that Zunruli remains undaunted. Though the High King's fury is terrible to behold, he is still a north wind gusting over a mountain. He may billow and raise up the swells against us, but Calormen is a fortress entrenched in stone, and the waves can only buffet our walls before they lose strength and slink back to their borders.

My knees stop quaking as I realize the cunning in Prince Rabadash's plan. For the High King is the embodiment of Narnia's power, but without his shield he falls prey to the enemy's attack. Emboldened, I loosen my grip on my scimitar and set my shoulders. Zunruli has acted wisely on the prince's behalf. Were it not for Tash's provision in luring the young king to the river near our borders, Zunruli and I might well be kneeling in ribbons in the barbarians' great hall. Silently I offer a prayer of thanks, for Tash's wisdom and insight, and hope that I might still escape this confrontation unscathed.

King Peter steps towards Zunruli, his voice wavering with pent rage. "Tell your donkey of a prince that I will not give him my sister; and if he does not return my brother to me….."

The unspoken oath twists inside of me, and my palms begin to sweat. With a mocking bow, Zunruli sweeps his robes around him and beckons to me. "Kalirdah, let us take our leave."

He need not forewarn the Narnians that if we do not return by the new moon, Prince Rabadash will assume treason and execute the spare king. It is already assumed, by the grave stances and terse frowns of those who escort us to the border, that our lives hang by the thread of the king's mercy, and were we not under the most precious of protections, we should be run through and discarded outside of the city walls. The High King might be a desert wind, scouring the rocks and stripping a man down to his bones, but without the coolness of his dark brother the heat has robbed him of his fervor, until he can do little more than stir aside a few loose grains of sand.

All the same, I do not feel secure until we have passed the forests bordering Archenland. A fell beast follows us from afar - a swooping evil with the head of a lion and eagle's wings - and I recall how in a short time past we had watered our horses on the brink of the Narnian river, strayed as we had from the trade routes of Archenland's borders, and chanced upon a young king's hunting party.

Not long after I would question the wisdom of Tash, for bringing upon us such a terrible doom. At the time, we only considered our divine blessing to proclaim vengeance for our disgraced city. Had I known how jealously the Lion guards his ransomed sons, I would never have set foot on the hallowed banks of Narnia.

* * *

 _It was at the height of summer when we set foot from Archenland, our horses burdened with trinkets and cloths and dried fruits and dainties as would not be found in our homeland. A fine trade we had made, myself and my four companions. We boasted of our merchandise, each declaring himself to be the most shrewd and clever in his bargaining. I myself had a dozen silver combs, each carved as a different sort of bird and set with iridescent stones, to please my sister upon my safe return. Ushulbet had traded for incense, to honor Tash and to banish illness from his mother's sister's house. Madrebi was a tent maker by trade and had acquired many fine, strong cloths that would buffer against the desert storms. He would cure them with linseed and honeycomb, making them a tempting purchase for merchants whose businesses suffered from frequent rains._ _Rilbanthu, a dealer in fine pearls, rejoiced in his findings; a small handful of nearly perfect specimens._

 _Elbith was the youngest of our group, accompanying us for the sake of his father, who wished for him to learn a trade. The lad was well learned in scrolls and verses, but his wayward mind struggled to comprehend the wit and audacity required for a satisfactory bargain. Ah, how we clamored around Elbith, shouting above one another, each proclaiming his good fortune and exemplary skills. The poor lad leaned idly in his saddle, mystified by our rambunctious declarations, and I doubt he learned so much as the price of salt from our enthusiastic reports._

 _It was during this adventure, as we strayed from the path to water our laden horses, that Elbith's young eyes espied a small party across the shallows._

" _Kalirdah," he called me softly, "Across the river; what strange creatures travel hence!"_

 _I followed his keen gaze and saw that - indeed - our paths had crossed those of a troupe of no more than ten soldiers. (I dare not call them "men," or even "females," as some appeared to my eyes, for there was a beastly quality that belayed such an association.) There were centaurs among them - those halfbreeds sired of horse and man - and the spritely-legged flute players with hooves like goats. I had heard tales of such creatures, but had never seen them with my own eyes._

 _Ushulbet, who had accompanied the Prince Rabadash to the walls of Archenland, loomed beside me and indicated urgently to the only man among the party. "Do not reveal yourself yet, Kalirdah. There is the one who led the army against our lord prince."_

' _Our lord prince,' whose title was marred by the curse which deformed him whenever he strayed far from the temple, was nonetheless the future Tisroc (may he live forever) of Calormen, and his disgrace reflected on our people so long as he drew breath. For this reason I did not question Ushulbet's spiteful accusation, for he himself had been forced to retreat under the young king's sword and the Lion's breath._

" _What shall we do?" I asked Ushulbet. To greet the small party under terms of peace, or to walk away unseen, did not even occur to me at the time. For they were so few in number, and so deep was our wound, that to stand idly was to concur with the Lion's judgment on our prince._

 _Rilbanthu drew up alongside me, his bow already strung. "Look hither," he said, indicating a few of the goat-men, "Some have laid down their weapons to wash. Let you and me strike the horsemen first, and Ushulbet will take his sword and waylay those who follow after us."_

" _We must be swift," I cautioned. "Their steeds are strong and their arrows quick."_

" _The king is unarmed," Madrebi reasoned. "See how he laughs with his men? Elbith shall guard the horses, while I take the king from behind. He will not struggle."_

 _I had no doubt that Madrebi's assumption was truth, for his build was colossal and his limbs were like cedars. Our only quest was to ensure that none of us were slain by the rampaging horsefolk of legend. Each of us would leave a sister or mother to mourn if we did not return._

" _We must not falter," I said._

" _The almighty Tash shall grant us victory," Ushulbet stated. He drew his sword, silent as grass swishing under the breeze, and crept to the river's shallows. Madrebi retreated into the forest and was lost to my sight, the most elusive of of us all despite his powerful frame. Rilbanthu and I readied our bows, each with three arrows gathered in his palm. As one, we shot._

 _A centaur fell with a pitious cry; something akin to the scream of a horse and the cry of a man, the sound of which I will never forget. My arrow sprang from his upper rib cage. He thrashed in the waters, churning them red, and eventually lay still with his face under the stream._

 _Rilbanthu had also struck true, and a second centaur stumbled, but did not fall. She charged across the stream, shouting for her fallen companion, and was cut from behind as Ushulbet sprang from the underbrush and sliced the tendons behind her legs. A second sweep of the bloody scimitar tore out her throat._

 _Already I had drawn my second arrow. It splatted wetly in the forehead of a goatman, and then I could not draw again. The third centaur was upon us, his long sword skinning past my head and rending my turban. Rilbanthu shot wildly, grazing the beast's arm, and was forced to skirt away from a frightful uppercut. We both retreated, scrambling to draw our scimitars. I saw the blade descend and knew my own death was nigh, when the creature howled and clutched at his left eye. Blood trickled over the horseman's hands. Whilst he was distracted Ushulbet rammed his scimitar into his soft belly and the beast fell, thrashing, before Rilbanthu shot him from three feet distance. Gratefully I looked over my shoulder to where young Elbith stood with his sling. The lad was as pale as a morning lily, a second stone clutched in his fist. I vowed I would honor his father with tales of his first kill._

 _Too soon Rilbanthu and I were forced to regroup, back to back with our scimitars in hand. Uldunath defended us from the side. Our enemies numbered four in guards, and the righteous fury of a young king whose lithe form trembled with strength I dared not believe. He dashed upon me with two swords, twin blades moving faster than my sight, and I understood why the prince's army had been swept away by a mere reserve. Such fire in those black eyes! Such terror gripped me as to halt my sword! What had possessed us to challenge the barbaric king?_

 _Brave Ushulbet did not tarry in fear. Rushing us both, he thrust the king's swords away from me and pressed him towards the river, where the rocks were slick and the uneven ground would cause him to stumble. Swerving from the stance where I had tasted death, I buried my scimitar to the hilt in the belly of another faun. Rilbanthu staggered, his arm streaming blood, and switched his blade to his left hand while I dispatched his enemy from behind. Together we flanked the last remaining guard, a dwarf of a man whose armor was left behind in the stream, and who defended himself valiantly before my scimitar flayed first his arm, then his throat._

 _We rushed to defend Ushulbet, who was falling back under the flurry of the king's blows, and bleeding from so many shallow wounds. Where was Madrebi? I flung myself before Ushulbet, knowing that even Rilbanthu and I together held little chance before this skilled swordsman, when the tortured scream of a wildcat shook us both. Even the king hesitated, pressed not to look behind him, and such was his undoing._

 _Barreling from the forest, his face and arms lacerated with deep scratches, Madrebi swung the magnificent corpse of a panther and flung it into the distracted king. Caught by the weight, King Edmund collapsed into the shallows, nearly opening his own shoulder upon his sword, and was hauled back by a manacled grip around his ankles. Renowned for hunting down and curing unblemished hides for his trade, Madrebi had slain oxen and wolves with his bare hands. The panther's broken neck was testament to the damage smote by his strong fingers, and they coiled like taut bowstrings around the king's forearms before he could brandish his swords. I heard a grotesque sound like the crack of a brittle hide, and closed my eyes at the king's anguished scream. Turning, I vomited into the water._

 _Hardened by a trade that dealt in butchery and gore, Madrebi merely clouted the young king across the temple, rendering him to the dark, and slung him over one shoulder. "Glory be to Tash," he said softly._

 _Aghast, blood running down our swords, Rilbanthu and I gazed at the bodies of the slain. Had they not been jesting with one another five minutes ere the ambush? Empty stares reflected from faces sprinkled with blood._

" _His glory shall be our victory," I murmured, scarcely aware of the words passing my lips._

" _We must tie him to a horse," Madrebi said, striding forth from the streambed. "We shall present the Tisroc - may he live forever - with a mighty prize."_

" _Do not take the Narnian beast," Ushulbet cautioned, looking to the creamy mare that bore the king's saddle. "There is bewitchery upon their kind."_

" _Shall we leave it to give warning to the barbarians?" Rllbanthu challenged. He drew an arrow, but was halted by Madrebi's raised hand._

" _Let me take the hide, if you must slay it," Madrebi implored. "To mar such fine horseflesh will be a waste, and I must replace the cloak that was torn by the panther's claws."_

" _Take it, and the panther's pelt," Ushulbet granted, "But do not touch the horsemen. I fear that evil will befall us if we dishonor these unnatural creatures."_

 _Nodding, Madrebi drew his knife and strode to the fallen panther. "Move forward without me, but leave me my horse," he said. "I will rejoin you ere you reach the desert."_

 _We strapped the king onto Elbith's horse, for Elbith was the lightest among us and could share a saddle with the majority of our trading goods. I did not believe the young king would run, for though his feet were hale his arms must be set before he could lift a sword, and the desert was long and wretched to those who were lost. How strange it was, to bear a man away from his own country, when we were neither at war nor bearing slaves to Narrowhaven. I looked upon the slain beasts with regret, but remembered our prayers to Tash. For his glory, we returned with a prize._

 _My happiness was daunted by the cloud which in that moment overshadowed the sun. Though we had fought valiantly and succeeded, I was not certain that we carried the stars' blessing. Indeed, I felt in my soul that if the Lion of Narnia had truly conquered the White Witch with a shake of his mane, then what we had done would have angered him deeply, and if so, then we had more reason to fear than if Tash himself had slain us._

* * *

The memory troubles me as I accompany Zunruli back to Calormen. Singing softly to myself, I use the stars to assess the passage of time. A day has passed since we delivered our harrowing message to the barbarian king. Thirteen nights have clutched the desert since we left the borders of Archenland. Nine sunrises burned with slow fire since we delivered the silver king to the Tisroc (may his name live forever). Prince Rabadash rejoiced in our find, begging for torturers, whips, and chains for the one who had orchestrated his humility (though I recall that it was a Lion who had cursed him, and not a man). Ponderous in the face of his opportunity, the Tisroc (may his name live forever, even though the thought is hollow in my weary soul) had not pampered to the whims of a vengeful prince, but had beckoned for healers, splints, and wine for their… guest.

To the common ear of travelling merchants and delegates, it appeared that the Tisroc (may his name live forever, they cheered) had proved the mercy of Tash in dealing kindly with his enemy. I soon learned it was not so.

Honoring our capture of one of the infidel kings, we were granted opportunities to be of service in the palace. Madrebi and Rilbanthu declined, preferring their given trades. Elbith required a soldier's training before he could stand guard. Ushulbet, already a captain, gladly accepted the offer to exceed his rank. For myself, I accepted because I was already a stable guard, unnoticed and unmemorable to my family, and I wanted to see more than Archenland before I left my commission.

Had I remained humble and kept my place as a stable guard, I might never have known the gravity of our actions.

"The High King will have no choice."

I startle at Zunruli's voice, so caught up in my musings that I nearly forgot that he was riding beside me. Zunruli simpers, satisfied with his apparent success.

"If the Narnians do not accept Prince Rabadash's terms, we will return with a token," he explains to me.

"We presented them with King Edmund's cloak," I recall, "And we left the king's swords at the river. They cannot doubt that we hold him captive."

"But how shall they ransom their king?" Zunruli clarifies smugly. "Whole? Or in segments? Perhaps we will return with his tongue, if he will not desist babbling to his Lion. Perhaps we will cut off his hands, so that he will not fight the chains. Or perhaps his feet - as the proverbs say, 'Sweep the legs out from under the stag, and he will no longer run to war.'"

Biting my cheek, I do not answer. To return a man's brother in pieces seems barbaric, even if it is a Narnian king. I remember those unquenchable dark eyes, the one time I saw him in the tower where he was caged, like a songbird seeking to fly even though his wings had been plucked of feathers. His arms were bound wrist-to-elbow in a crude splint, and his face was drawn with pain, but he almost seemed to pity me as I backed out of his cell. I mentioned it to Ushulbet that night, and he spoke of the boy king's fortitude; of his whispered prayers; of his soft, trembling baritone when he sang, aware that if another guard was watching him he would be beaten into silence.

"There's a light in that boy's face." Proud, unwavering Ushulbet bowed his head as he spoke. "Never have I seen the like. Even my dear Lilmih, a devoted worshiper these three years in Tash's holy temple, has not demonstrated such adoration."

I do not let myself wonder how an infidel's Lion can shake Tashbaan's most faultless soldier. My duty is to the Tisroc (may he live forever) and to Tash, the almighty. I will not question a foreigner's deity.

Soon there is no question that Zunruli and I are being followed by more than a winged lion. Subtle creaks in the underbrush, and the light skitter of claws, indicate that there could be as much as an army behind us. Zunruli assures me that we need not fear, however, for even if we are to be held ransom, the life of a king outweighs those of a courier and his bodyguard. The High King will not risk hostages that he cannot afford. There is only one price worthy of a brother's blood, and Prince Rabadash will soon have his queen.

"It is simple," Zunruli assures me once more.

I wish that I could believe his words.

* * *

We are not assailed outside of Calormen, but I know that we are watched. Our enemy is simply too cautious to assault our walls under two hundred bowmen. Perhaps they assume that with adequate knowledge of our strength and resources, they might sabotage us in the night. They will not be the first to test the strength of Calormen. The one enemy we dared not confront was the White Witch herself.

Considering again that it was the Narnian's Lion who befelled the witch, I waver in my belief that we will be untouched behind our walls. Was it not the Lion who banished our prince from Archenland? Is it not said that he can appear at will, and even death cannot touch him?

Dry-mouthed with too many disturbing thoughts, I refuse to dwell on them further as I enter the throne room at Zunruli's side. The Tisroc (may he live forever) is in a darkened mood, curtly beckoning for Zunruli's report. Prince Rabadash leans towards us, eagerly awaiting favorable news.

His bellow of disgust nearly outmatches the High King's. "She dares to defy me!" the prince rages to his father. "Send word to the guards! Let the Narnians see what becomes of their impudence!"

Rigidly the Tisroc raises his hand, and I raise another silent prayer for his immortality even as I hope that I will not be cut short of my own days. He speaks quietly with a guard, who bows stiffly and leaves the throne room. Zunruli presses his lips down, suppressing a delighted smile. I know where those halls lead.

"Shall I send word?" Prince Rabadash says eagerly. "What token shall we deliver to the barbarian king?"

Nobly the Tisroc (may his life be prolonged and may he pardon all who enter his court) rises and fixes his stern eyes on Zunruli. The courier's pampered smile vanishes as he bows deeply, aware that those who stand in the Tisroc's everlasting presence may certainly court death.

"The fairness of the barbarian queen shines in the countenance of a young king," the Tisroc (may he continue to live and grant us our humble lives) says to the prince. "Let him carry the brunt of your wrath, but do not lay hand to his head. The Narnians shall look upon the face of their king as he hangs upon our walls, and their queen will offer herself to you willingly in penitence for her selfish pride."

Pleased, Prince Rabadash bows low and hastens from the throne room. Zunruli mimics his bow, praising the Tisroc (may he use his immortality for the glory of Calormen) for his craftiness and wisdom. I, too, offer my respect, but I dare not speak. Dread is closing up my throat and my tongue clings to the roof of my mouth. I know not why this blight taints our victory, but I know from whence it draws.

We have spilt the blood of innocents in the waters of their homeland, and their Lion surely has not ignored their cries.

* * *

I am called upon by Ushulbet ere the moon rises. His countenance reveals nothing, but his eyes carry a dismal unease that I have associated only with bitter wars and the call for retreat. He does not speak, and I follow with equal silence as he leads me down the halls and to the staircase of the tower. I have entered this room only once before, and that before Zunruli's appeal to the Narnian High King.

I remember the tower being a stately room, for though it was a dungeon in its own, the only captive aspect was its prisoner. The room was enlivened with tapestries and a tasseled rug, with a small table and scrolls (although the prisoner could not read with his arms thus bound), and a cushioned mat where he could lie comfortably without lifting himself from the floor. There was a wineskin (that I did not doubt was filled alike), and foods that would nourish yet be gentle on the stomach - indeed, were it not for the splints twining both arms together, the prisoner might well have been a guest in our homeland.

The proclamations of the Tisroc (may his mercy endure as long as his life expectancy) and Prince Rabadash now leave a dire impression on the tower and its occupant. I have not entered the cell since I first saw the young king delivered, for the Tisroc (may he live forever) wished for us all to see the result of our clever ambush. Elbith, the good lad, was the only soul who was tarnished upon viewing the prisoner. Madrebi and Ushulbet remained impassive, whilst Rilbanthu left almost immediately upon our dismissal. He was a merchant of the sea, and not equipped for battle, and thus we excused his actions.

Now, as Ushulbet escorts me into the tower, I feel as though Rilbanthu was the wisest to have left for his own city. The room reflects hospitality and comfort in its elegant furnishing and brightly colored linens, but its cruel facade is made clear by the manacles encasing the Just King's ankles and wrists. He lies inert, his breathing shallow and pained, but were I to look only upon his face I would assume that he was resting unharmed. The Tisroc (may he learn kindness in his immortal reign) did not exaggerate that the comely Queen Susan is reflected in the silver king. Few can look upon his face without admitting that Narnia is not only barbaric, but beautiful.

The king's restful pose only conceals deeper wounds. Ushulbet hands me his torch (and now I realize that the prisoner cannot see his surroundings when the guards leave his room) and kneels beside the king, retrieving from his satchel ointment and linen bandages and crushed herbs. I sense that he does not wish for his actions to be known to Prince Rabadash, and that perhaps this is the only medicine the silver king has been offered since he was first tended upon his arrival. At first I watch the proceedings, flinching as Ushulbet draws back the king's tunic to reveal new swellings upon old bruises and lash marks, but I soon feel ill and must turn my back. I have seen enough. Prince Rabadash is vindictive in his wrath, and I do not believe that Ushulbet will find a place that is not marked. There are broken bones in the hands and bare feet, and one leg hangs limp. Swiftly Ushulbet yanks upon it, and I hear the revolting clunk of a hip that is slung back into its socket.

The pain awakens the young king and he gasps, a shrill whistle that is a dreadful sound. I am compelled to turn around. The fierce, unquenchable dark eyes are now dull and weary, and watch with bewilderment as Ushulbet smears ointment on stiffening joints and bruises. The young king attempts to speak but cannot; livid red prints surround his throat. I wonder if he was speaking the name of his Lion before Prince Rabadash tired of the barbarian's sacrilege and strangled the prayers from his voice. It is justice in the eyes of Tash, yet I cannot help but remember the words of old: " _Deal fairly in the presence of a just judge, lest you too be dragged into the court of judgment._ "

Is it justice to beat a man nigh to death for calling on the name of his god? Bowing my head, I know the answer. There is no god but Tash. There is none else who is worthy of praise. If true justice had been meted, the Narnian's tongue would have been cut out for desecrating the hallowed city of Tashbaan. The Tisroc (may he live forever) has proved himself merciful indeed.

"I must tend his feet," Ushulbet says soberly, returning the cork to an empty salve jar. "Give me the wineskin, and I will make a poultice of these herbs."

Swallowing the gorge in my throat, I offer it to him. The silver king's feet are black and swollen. There are lash marks on the base of his feet that are several days old. He will not walk for many days; perhaps for many seasons. I have seen death, and I have gloried in the victories that Tash has given us, but I have never witnessed the torment of another man. To prolong his suffering without the release of death…. In my eyes, this is the cruelty of slavers, and not of kings.

"We can do no more," Ushulbet says, rising from the foreigner's side. He spreads a cover over the young king, to hide the evidence of his aid, but the truth will be found ere the guard morning, when the king is chained to the east wall. Ushulbet has merely offered him a small respite for the remainder of the night. In the morning the rising sun will slowly bake him, but not before the beasts who have followed us have seen his disgrace. They will flock to his rescue, for such is the nature of a loyal people, and they will fall beneath the archers of Calormen.

Eventually the High King will cease to send messengers to retrieve the body and will lead his army across the Great Desert. The inexperienced will die of heat and thirst, and the strong will languish before they reach our high walls. If they skirt the desert by passing through Telmar, they will be flanked by our allies. If they press through Archenland and rally the assistance of King Lune, they shall still be driven back by the combined forces of Telmar and Calormen. Without question, lest Queen Susan herself beg for terms of peace and present herself as a bride to Prince Rabadash, we shall sweep away the Narnians as they avenge their own king.

The Tisroc (may Calormen remain strong through his immortal leadership) is the shrewdest and most clever among us. With one man, he will strike down Narnia and bring the war to ground of his own choosing. Were we to fight the barbarians elsewhere, we would fall prey to the bewitchment of their forests and streams. Across the Great Desert, there is only Tash. The silver king's Lion has not rescued his servant. Neither will he save the Narnians from our swords.

"All praise be to Tash, who has given us victory," I whisper.

I look upon the struggling, shallow breaths of our prisoner, and find that I must turn my face away. I sense that our triumph is but a hollow victory.

* * *

Madrebi confronts me before sunrise. He is haggard and pale, and has not slept. "I have dreamed terrible things," he says gravely. I draw a sharp breath, for Madrebi does not dream.

"In my dreams, the pelts came to life," Madrebi continues. "They spoke to me, and said, 'What have you done to us, son of man?' I saw the fallen in the river, and they asked me the same. This dream I have experienced for three nights past. I have burned the pelts and offered incense to Tash, but still I cannot rest."

"How can we appease the dead?" I ask, terrified of his words. "We cannot return souls to corpses."

"I know not," Madrebi says. He paces, shaken by the things he has seen. He who never flinched in the face of a lion now seems uncertain, bowed under dreadful visions. "What enchantment possesses these creatures of Narnia, that they should haunt us within our own borders?"

I look at him and realize that he has reached the same conclusion as I; that perhaps the Lion's claws extend as far as Tashbaan. "What did your dreams tell you? What must we do?"

Resignedly, Madrebi shakes his head. "There is nothing to be done. We have sinned, and the last of the Narnian party will be slain ere the morrow. Such is as Tash has allowed."

"Glory be to Tash," I say on reflex.

"May his glory be our victory," Madrebi echoes curtly. He crosses broad arms, arms like the limbs of tigers, and his strength offers me little comfort, for he feels as helpless as I.

"Would that the prisoner be returned to his homeland," I murmur, aware that such thoughts mean treason. "Perhaps the curse would pass us by."

"The Tisroc (may he live forever) has passed his judgment," Madrebi says. "We cannot refute his ordinance."

I dare speak again. "If the Lion were to know that we had freed the condemned, he would grant us mercy..."

I have gone too far. Madrebi's eyes flash and his voice is a low growl as he warns me, "Take care, Kalirdah. My servitude is to Tash, and he alone I shall never betray."

He leaves me in the oppressive silence of the palace halls, and I know that if I am to reach a decision, I cannot seek for his aid. I wonder if I am the only one to sense a deeper threat than the Narnian battalions, and if I am a fool and a traitor for considering that the almighty Tash might falter against a higher power.

Ashamed for my blasphemous thoughts, I resume my slow route, guarding the halls of the Tisroc (may he live forever, though no man before him has been so fortunate). It is as I pass the stairwell to the tower that I realize I can see a soft light glowing beneath the door. Ushulbet is leaning against the frame, with the guards' torch was flickering in its place beside him. Curious, I look over my shoulder and then ascend the stairwell. To my surprise, I am not acknowledged by the captain. I look into his face and discover that he has fallen into a deep sleep. Wary of the punishment that will befall him if he is discovered, I brace his shoulder and shake him gently.

"Rise, Ushulbet. I will finish this night's watch in your place."

He does not waken. Astonished, I listen to his soft snores, assuring myself that he is not poisoned or wounded. Such a deep sleep is unnatural. As unnatural as Madrebi's dreams.

Fixated on the curious, unwavering light that splashes from the prisoner's room, I gently push on the door. Though the keys are looped to Ushulbet's belt, the door swings open without resistance. Light comparable to sunbeams spills onto my feet, and for a moment I think we have paced the night away and slipped unknowingly into the dawn.

I step inside, shading my eyes against the unnatural glow. Had the sun risen and set in the palace, it could not have cast a brighter gleam. I stumble and catch myself, casting my eyes to the floor, and see that I have tripped over an empty shackle. Immediately I reach for my sword. We have failed to guard the prisoner, and should he escape death will fall upon us all.

"Put down your sword, Kalirdah son of Khunmida."

The soft, low rumble shakes me to my core. Promptly I fall to my knees, quaking like a child before a cobra, for I realize that I am no longer alone in the room, and neither is King Edmund.

* * *

I have seen lions in my time. Madrebi hunts them for pelts. Once Rilbanthu and I watched him wrestle down a female and wrench its neck in twain with his bare hands. They are magnificent animals, with fearsome jowls and paws that can rake a man's flesh and crush his skull: a worthy representation of the Narnian's deity. Yet Ushubelt had reported seeing several lions among their kind, and they were no more godlike than the panther which Madrebi skinned. We laughed over the foolishness of Narnia, toasting our great Tash with wine and song, while Madrebi paraded the maned pelt of a lion he had trapped in the desert.

Now, as the piercing light fades and I tremble on the floor, I regret my flippant mockery. If it is a lion before me, then he is the forefather of all beasts. His paws span five hands. and when he rises he stands above Madrebi's horse. I dare not raise my eyes beyond his mane. To look upon Tash brings certain death. What shall I expect from a foreign deity?

"Tash, save me!" I whisper, dragging my hands through my hair and pulling on the roots as I try to awaken myself from what I know is no dream. "You are the ruler of land and sky. By you were all things created. Show your power against this foreign demon and save your humble servant!"

Through my cracked fingers, I can see the Lion's tail batting against the floor. Surely Tash will not leave me to his mercy. Just as the Lion has come for the Narnian king, so Tash will battle for his people. He will not be outmatched by the legends of barbarians.

"Show yourself, Tash!" I whisper, whimpering as the massive paws pace closer. "Prove your might against the barbarians!"

Though I am reluctant to admit it to myself, I recall a frightened squeak emitting from my throat as the paws halt before me. With a soft _whuff_ the Lion bats his head against my own. I totter back, yelping as my eyes behold the behemoth standing above me. I cannot not begin to describe my terror, as I look into eyes that hold the wisdom of a thousand worlds, and the kindness of an immeasurable soul. I have little time to wonder and much opportunity to fear, for with a toss of his mane the Lion roars in my face.

It is not like the bellow of the High King, angered by the loss of his kin. Neither is it alike to the thunder of a storm, or the whoosh of flames devouring a forest. It is an earthshaking reverberation; a commanding beckon; a trumpet that compels worship; the earth and sea joining forces to pummel the courage from men's hearts; an onslaught of sound that defies arrogance and crushes a man's pride. I quiver, babbling and weeping in turn, and wait to be devoured. As the roar fades into silence I clutch my turban, pulling the cloth over my face. I cannot bear to meet his eyes again.

"Do you fear me more than Tash, Kalirdah?" the Lion asks. His rumble holds no threat; merely the gentlest invitation.

Briskly I shake my head. Where is Tash to rescue his servant? Where is his glory to overthrow the Lion? I do not believe he will come.

"Where is the wisdom of Calormen?" the Lion accuses me. "Do you not remember what befell your prince when he threatened my people?"

"Forgive me," I whisper, shuddering under the vision of a blood filled river. "Forgive me - forgive us. Forgive me. Please, do not slay me."

"Slay you?" There is a rumble, much like a cat's purr of satisfaction, or perhaps a gentle laugh, and the giant head nudges me once more. "I have already slain your soul, Kalirdah son of Khunmida. From now on you will remember me."

Remember? How could one forget the pounding clash of thunder and light? I shake and nod my head in turns. Yes, I shall remember. No, I shall never forget. Spare me my life, and I shall never lay hand to a Narnian again.

As though he knows my thoughts, the Lion brushes his head against mine. For an instant he seems less terrible; and almost tender in his bearing, as though one can lay against his side and speak to him of wondrous and soulful matters and never fear rebuke. I see a vision of a golden land, lush with grass and white flowers, with a river gushing in a wordless melody, singing without end, and in the distance, a white city set on a foundation of precious stones. The image vanishes in my next blink, and I see the Lion standing before me. Trembling, I press my forehead against my hands. I understand why the countenance of the Just King shines.

"Leave the wickedness of your fathers, and follow me," the Lion says.

He roars again, and against the burning light surrounding him I see the young king standing beside him, robed in silver, his eyes bright and merry as the day we saw him by the river. The shattering sound cracks the stonework around me. I see, rather than hear, the tower shiver beneath the Lion's call, as though the stones themselves tremble at his voice. They crumble in a cascade of dust, and I huddle in the patch of remaining causeway, waiting until the dust settles to raise my head.

As I suspected, the Lion and his charge have vanished. The door swings ajar behind me, supported on one hinge. Not only has the tower shivered to pieces, but the surrounding buildings have cracked. In the distance, I see the damage extending to Tash's holy temple.

Where is the great Tash to defend his chosen city?

"Kalirdah! Kalirdah!" Coughing in the smog, Ushulbet flings the door aside and seizes my shoulder. "Come back from the edge, Kalirdah!"

My legs will not support me. I crawl backwards, staring at the rubble far below. "The king has vanished."

Breathing an unspeakable word, Ushulbet pulls me behind the door and shakes his head. "He was stolen in the attack. Speak thusly to the Tisroc (may he live forever). The Narnians besieged us and took back their king by force. Say it, Kalirdah!"

"He was… stolen," I repeat, the words sticking in my throat. "The Narnians besieged us."

"Good." Backing away, Ushulbet sheathes his scimitar. "Come. We must bring word to the Tisroc. May he live forever, and may he be merciful."

Staggering, I follow him blindly. I know not how I shall make the report. I only know that I have seen the impossible, and I cannot blindly place my faith in anything again. The Narnian Lion has bested us, and Tash did not reprehend him.

I know not whether I shall bequeath my service to this Lion. This _Aslan._ I dare to think the name aloud, though I do not speak it. I do not know enough to consider this new manner of faith. But I have seen the Lion redeem his own, and I wonder if he might also accept a foreigner, or if I am bound to the god who spreads his wings over Calormen.

Perhaps one day, if I survive this encounter with the Tisroc (may he live… long enough to pardon myself and my fellow guards), I might journey to Narnia alone. If the rulers of Calormen can spare my life, perhaps the Just King will also listen to my pleas, and speak to me of this Lion who jarred the whole of Tashbaan for the sake of his servant. Perhaps I might begin to understand the one who nominates kings, and humiliates princes who do not fear his name.

Perhaps… perhaps one day…. I might see this golden city with my own eyes, and never fear again.

* * *

" _I don't understand, Edmund. How could you possibly_ _ **walk**_ _out of Calormen without anyone stopping you?"_

" _I told you three times already, Peter. I woke during the night and Aslan was there in the cell with me. My chains fell off and he told me to leave the city."_

" _And you just_ _ **walked**_ _out of there. With broken feet, past a horde of guards - "_

" _ **Sleeping**_ _guards, pay attention, Peter."_

" _\- Across the Great Desert, through the borders of Archenland, and just happened to collapse on the banks of the Narnian River, where you were carried home by the raiding party who was sent to rescue you from Calormen, and barely survived long enough to receive Lucy's cordial."_

" _Strange… I don't recall that part. I remember reaching the edge of the city, and … suddenly I was there. Lying by the stream where they slew my troops and that poor mare."_

" _You're lucky they found you first. We were shy of tearing down the walls of Calormen ourselves."_

" _I doubt they'll be mustering their armies for a long while, Peter. The garrison stronghold was in shambles."_

" _All praise be to Aslan. I would have destroyed it myself had I found you there."_

 _Edmund makes a small sound, neither in agreement nor rebuke. He does not tell Peter about the soldiers who tended to him, or the peace of Aslan's presence in the darkness, or the words whispered to him with every endless, languishing hour:_

" _Patience, Young King. You shall be my witness to those who do not speak my name."_

 _He wonders about the fate of his captors: the aged veteran who wrapped his wounds; the uneasy merchant who stole away to his own city; the strong man who stared at his own hands with shame; the boy who could not bear the scene of death; the green soldier who bore the brunt of Aslan's presence. In the nights after, even upon his departure from Narnia, he wonders what became of these five men. He wonders if his whispered prayers had any meaning, lost as he was in the abyss of pain. He wonders if - wretchedly as he had behaved after the deaths of his troops - he had still reflected some aspect of Aslan during his captivity. He prays that he did not waste his chance by dwelling on misery and self-pity._

" _Only one life, t'will soon be past," he murmurs the old proverb, hoping that it is not too late for the Lion's will to be done. "Only what's done for Him shall last."_

 _Years later, far across the Great Desert, an old soldier will whisper the same._

* * *

 **Notes on the story:**

 **The Calormen names were derived from a random generator for fantasy names.**

 **Phillip (Edmund's horse) was left at Cair Paravel with a swollen foreleg when Edmund and his company was attacked, and thus wasn't killed by Madrebi. That part was supposed to be included in a Narnian POV and once I began writing from Kalirdah's point of view it didn't fit into the story.**

 **Originally the story was going to be written from the Pevensie's point of view, focusing on Susan's doubts and her contemplation of taking Prince Rabadash's offer in order to save Edmund's life. Once again, that part was left out after the story centered on Calormen.**

 **The nature of Edmund's escape is loosely based on two Biblical incidences: the first where Peter is chained in a cell between two guards, but is freed during the night and led out of the prison and past the guard posts by an angel (Acts 12), and the second where Phillip is "spirited away" from the Gaza road to Azotus, just after he has finished baptizing an Ethiopian who was studying the scriptures of Isaiah (Acts 8).**

 **Any other questions/comments, feel free to ask me via a private message or review!**


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